Submission
by Paltomi
Summary: His rational mind told him that it didn't make sense to want to submit to the man he always had the most power over, but then when had love and lust ever made sense? [Blackbright] [mature content]


**A/N:** Written for the PW kink meme for a prompt requesting Blackbright where only Simon is undressed. This one's a bit different from my usual style, but I'm actually quite pleased with how it turned out. It took on a bit of a D/s angle because I've always seen Simon as a total sub. :'3 Anyway, enjoy!

**Rated M** for explicit sexual content.

**Spoilers for:** Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney - Dual Destinies

* * *

Perhaps it was because he was lonely that he let Fulbright talk him into this. Or maybe it was just too late at night, and he was too tired, and rational decisions were far from his mind.

"You look beautiful, Prosecutor Blackquill," the detective told him, and he found he couldn't say anything in response for fear of snapping himself out of this strange, erotic trance he'd fallen into. Fulbright's eyes were all over him, taking in his firm musculature and the curves and contours of his body. Part of him wanted to shrink back, to fold over and hide himself with the modesty of a schoolgirl. But he was too proud, and now too stimulated, for that.

Fulbright unlocked his cell and stepped inside before locking it again, the familiar pair of shackles in hand. "I need to put these back on you."

He thought about objecting to such a silly arrangement – he was here, after all, locked in his cell, and he didn't need the restraints – but he found, once again, that he couldn't say anything. If he spoke, he would hear his voice and remember who he was, and then the spell would be broken. He didn't want to return to himself – not yet.

Cold metal closed over his skin, and, unwillingly, he flinched. Fulbright noticed, gently caressed his cheek with a gloved hand, and applied the second shackle. It felt odd, wearing nothing but his restraints, like he was a slave about to be put on the auction block. The image made his groin tighten.

Fulbright was passing a hand along his body, stroking his face, his chest, stopping to smooth over his nipples and thumb his navel, then traveling lower to cup and squeeze his buttocks. The hand stopped with just a faint touch at his groin, which he leaned into hungrily, but Fulbright shook his head and removed the hand.

"Be patient, sir."

But how could he be expected to have patience when those cool, skillful fingers were playing him like a flute? He put his hands on Fulbright's chest, trying to incite him, through the fabric of his coat, to keep going. But the detective took hold of the chain of his shackles and forced his arms down, keeping them immobile there. He growled in frustration, but Fulbright only smoothed the thumb and forefinger of his free hand across his lips.

"Easy now, Prosecutor Blackquill. We have all night, remember."

Their lips met for a brief, glorious moment – and then Fulbright pulled away, and yanked the chain of his shackles downward.

"Now get on your knees."

He despised being ordered around, which made it all the more erotic when he, after only a few moments' hesitation, obeyed. Submitting to one he so often commanded brought a flush of shame to his cheek and carried with it an almost overwhelming surge of humiliation. And yet through it all ran a current of sensuality he couldn't – wouldn't – fight.

"Brace your hands against the floor."

Again, he obliged, laying his palms flat across the floor and splaying his fingers. The concrete was cold and rough against his bare legs, which Fulbright only aggravated by spreading them further apart. In his right mind, he would have lashed out against such callous treatment, but now, in the state he was in, he could only swallow his apprehension and submit, submit both to Fulbright and to his own base desires.

The first finger that entered him was like a cool electric shock. He jerked forward, biting back a groan, and concentrated on maintaining his balance. Fulbright hadn't removed the glove of that hand, and so the covered finger swam through him sleek as a dolphin. There was something dehumanizing about the lack of flesh-on-flesh contact, about the detective abstaining from touching him directly, like he was unsuited to the most natural kind of human interaction. His mind again conjured up the image of a slave, a piece of property meant to be inspected, then used, without any expectations of intimacy; a toy and an amusement, kept on the whims of a fickle master. He grew hot between the legs but kept his mouth shut against any aroused noises that might have issued from it.

Then a second finger joined the first, tentatively prodding between his buttocks before slipping into the warmth of his hole and beyond that ring of muscles. He shuddered in pleasure, pushing back against the hand, trying to get the fingers to probe deeper. He hadn't been touched back there in years, since when he was first incarcerated, and he craved the attention that Fulbright was giving him there. He was tight, and they both knew that now, and so the fingers began to scissor back and forth, moving him, stretching him looser and looser until finally, he did emit a short, clipped cry. Then they delved further, scratching around until they found it, that one spot that would send him over the edge, and they pressed it, and with a moan as deep as the fingers buried within him, he let his seed flood out of him and onto the floor.

A moment later, the fingers were withdrawn, and Fulbright was pulling him to his feet by his shackles.

"You were excellent, sir," the detective said, unlocking his cuffs as he stared blearily off to the side. "I look forward to seeing you tomorrow."

And once Fulbright had gone, and he had cleaned and dressed himself, he couldn't help but wonder, as he sat on his bunk, gently tracing his lips with his thumb, if maybe, someday, they could ever have something more.


End file.
